


Enfold

by Trashdarling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Love, M/M, john is huggy, run on sentences as a stylistic choice, sherlock is me tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashdarling/pseuds/Trashdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing really made sense.  Then, suddenly, it did</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enfold

Nothing really made sense.  Not that it ever does, but usually there’s a sense of normalcy that can pass for sense for most people enabling them to form a pattern of daily activity which, while not the most efficient or fulfilling, at least occupies their time until the inevitable end.

 

But on the smaller scale, nothing makes sense at this particular moment because John was doing… something.  Something which can only be described as strange in the non-normal, ‘everyone is different so fuck it in these very conventional and preconceived ways’ way of strange that tends to generally make even the nonconformist ‘please notice me I’m special’ crowd sceptical as to the sanity of the person committing said action.

 

Said action being giving Sherlock a rather tight and long form hug which allowed Sherlock to feel every wonderfully heated inch of John’s short body pressed against him in a way that should not be making him feel as safe, content, and positively giddy as it was. Being that he loved John this reaction could be explained by the intense release of chemicals and hormones this contact caused, but that had no bearing over the reason John was doing this in the first place.

 

After all, if John had any idea of Sherlock’s less than platonic feelings for him he would no doubt not be making this form of contact in a mix of discomfort brought on by toxic hypermasculinity and concern for ‘leading Sherlock on’ brought on by reinforced societal tropes that interacting with someone who had unrequited feelings for you was somehow better for them in the long run which was not at all true in Sherlock’s case or in the case of many romantically motivated murders he had investigated as ignoring tended to make one’s heart feel as though it were about to implode from loneliness and rejection.  At least with John as his friend he could survive day to day life without feeling so much as though he were an old post-it note which was only useful for a brief amount of time and then discarded.

 

John’s friendship lead to situations such as this with the intense physical contact, after all, which was a very good thing in his opinion.  Although their friendship did not actually usually lead to this.  This was a very unique and unusual scenario, hence why Sherlock was so confused his brain seemed to be working on some sort of strange overboard autopilot hybrid of insanity.  Of course this was how his brain usually worked, but now it seemed far too fast and too much, as though he had gone locked up in a room with no one but himself for three days and nothing to do to occupy his mind from imploding.

 

The only thing keeping him from true frenzied panic complete with hair pulling and pacing was John’s secure grip on his torso.  It really was a very calming action, despite the furious maelstrom of thoughts rushing through Sherlock’s scattered brainmatter.

 

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the frightful security and wonderful chaos which was John Watson hugging Sherlock Holmes was gone, replaced by only the feeling of his chest being carved open with a rusted ice pick, a metaphor he knew was apt as he had experienced that exact situation while on his post-death tour around Europe and Asia.  

John “hmm”d and clenched his fists, swinging slightly up onto his toes and back down onto his heels.  Obviously he was regretting his actions, the clearly awkward movements and discomforted brow furrowing lighthouses of second-guessing and mistaken action.

 

And why wouldn’t he regret this?  Afterall Sherlock was a socially misguided, pushy, judgmental drug addict who, frankly, did not deserve the positive attentions of anyone, especially John-shot-the-cabbie-army-doctor-life-saviour-kind-funny-precious-too-good-for-him-Watson.

 

John narrowed his navy eyes and squinted rather pointedly at Sherlock in a gesture Sherlock had learned to mean that John had spoken to him and he was too lost in his own head to realize it.  As Sherlock was not currently working a case and his silence had happened immediately after an action of John’s, him being self-absorbed in his own mind would probably lead to arguing and not praise at how clever and dedicated Sherlock is to The Work.

 

“Sherlock,” John began slowly, as though speaking to a child, which was fair considering Sherlock had no sense of self preservation and he constantly needed others to care for him like the burden he was.

 

“John,” he returned, successfully keeping his face and voice completely emotionless.

 

John huffed out a small breath that meant he did not think simply saying his name should be funny enough to make him laugh and yet it had.  Sherlock felt his heart swell into wonderful fullness as it always did when he managed to make John laugh or smile just by being himself.

 

“I asked if that was ok” John clarified, making an abortive motion at Sherlock’s body clearly meant to indicate the… physical contact which had recently ended.

 

‘ _ Yes!  Absolutely!  If you did nothing but that until the end of our existence I would be happier than I had ever imagined myself being! _ ’ his mind screamed as he intoned “That was… acceptable”.  

 

Something of his real emotion must have showed on his face because John chuckled, his smile crinkling his eyes beautifully as he said “alright”.  

 

Or perhaps it wasn’t John seeing his real emotion since surely he would be revolted if he ever knew the level which Sherlock cared for him.  He was probably just amused by Sherlock’s cold and impersonal nature, as he often seemed to be.  That was the person John had chosen to live with, not this emotionally attached and incompetent wreck.

 

When Sherlock returned from his pit of self loathing enough to see the world around him John was gone.

 

…

 

The next time it happened was after Sherlock had nearly burned the flat down.

 

Sherlock had attempted to bake biscuits after Mrs. Hudson had declared she would be gone to her sister’s for a week, pointedly leaving the recipe for the homemade deliciousness that Sherlock had become slightly obsessed with recently.  

 

He had (rather foolishly, he now realized) thought that since he was such an outstanding chemist creating a few chemical reactions with food should be easy.

 

Unfortunately the resemblance to chemistry had reminded him of an experiment he had been wanting to do.  He had become so absorbed in how melted chocolate obscured fingerprints that he had completely forgotten about the biscuits until John was bodily shoving him from the kitchenette, frantically cursing as he opened the stove and thick black smoke came pouring out.

 

“The hell was that about?” John demanded once the crisis was averted.  He looked an odd blend of dangerously sexy and disgruntledly adorable when he had soot on his face and his short hair was furiously sticking up.

 

Sherlock explained the situation in his ‘it-wasn’t-my-fault-John’ voice, which did end up working about half the time.  Usually not in such an ‘obviously-his-fault’ case such as this, but if there was one thing being a younger sibling taught him it was that you never got out of trouble unless you tried.

 

Then the most wonderful thing happened.  John’s entire frame relaxed and a full-body laugh echoed through the flat.  He looked so warm and full of life it brought the normal urge Sherlock had to kiss him to a pounding need.  Sherlock had to clench his fists to prevent himself from reaching out to him and never letting this wonderful man go.

 

By some miracle his wish was granted and John was pulling him into a tight embrace, still laughing.  It was fascinating to feel John’s body shake against his, the physical evidence of his mirth radiating into Sherlock until he couldn’t help but laugh himself.

 

The pure feeling of solidarity and home that Sherlock felt in that moment seemed to make it easier to breath, easier to feel each dip and curve and ridge of John against him.  

 

This hug was impossibly better than the first.  Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was because his brain was fully focused on John this time or if it was the simple fact of John’s laughter, but it was more blissful than any dose of cocaine.

 

As the laughter died down, John did not let go.  He sighed, small and content and so, so lovely, and rested his head against Sherlock’s collarbone, soft little breaths puffing onto Sherlock. 

“John?” he whispered, voice small and shaking, as if the feeling of John so close and intimate was physically restricting his air.

 

“Yeah?”  John’s breath ghosted against his neck.  His spine tingled pleasantly, running down his arms and curling his toes.

 

Sherlock’s brain short circuited.  He had no idea what he had wanted to say.  John didn’t seem to care, thankfully, and simply continued to hold him.

 

And then something even more bizarre happened.  John pulled back, just slight enough so he was face to face with Sherlock without losing bodily contact.  The combination of John’s reassuring embrace with the sight of his intense, dark blue eyes was completely captivating.  

 

Sherlock slowly cataloged each color in John’s eyes: the dark brown rim around his pupils surrounded by a bright sky color with tiny, cloud like patches of lighter blue.  They were a perfectly balanced formula, the discovery of a new element, the perfect murder, a case that went on just long enough to not be boring or frustratingly long.  They were John’s perfect window out into the world which altered the way he reacted and categorized everything, and that was undeniably wonderful.

 

John’s lips touched his, so softly and sweetly that it made him feel like the most precious being in the world.  It was slow and delicate, as though they had forever to just kiss.  Perhaps they did.  Because for once, everything made sense in a way the world normally didn’t, like the universe had been spinning wildly out of control until John had kissed him and suddenly it had slammed into order and safely.

 

Sherlock fluttered his eyes open as John pulled back, not remembering when he had closed them and not at all caring.

 

“Okay?” John asked, his face lit in the sunniest smile Sherlock had ever witnessed.

 

“The world makes sense now” Sherlock informed him.  It felt important for John to understand how monumental this occasion was, how it changed the composition of all matter.

 

John’s eyes seemed to glow with an affection that shot straight to Sherlock’s heart, causing it to respond noisily.  In this new sensical world his heart to tell John directly how much it loved him.  In this new world nothing mattered but Sherlock and John.

  
“I know exactly what you mean” 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was actually supposed to be a lot longer. It was going to be a 5+1 type fic, but I've been a bit busy and stressed lately and not really had time to write. I knew this fic would probably never get finished because of this, so I just ended it where it was because I actually really enjoyed the beginning. So, basically, sorry for the sloppy ending, I hope you like this fic anyway, thank you for reading!


End file.
